


A St. Patrick's Day to Remember

by GypsyReaper



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Drinking, Gen, Humor, Hunters and Hunting, Supernatural Beings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1381078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GypsyReaper/pseuds/GypsyReaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supernatural X Boondock Saints. Dean and Sam find themselves in an Irish bar in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day, and find themselves in the company of a rambunctious set of Irish twins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A St. Patrick's Day to Remember

"Dammit, Sam, we lost it!" Dean growled, kicking the metal trash can in front of him, and then swore as he hurt himself. He whipped around and pointed an accusatory finger at Sam. "That's what happens when I let you drive!"

"Don't even try to blame this on me, jerk! You can't drive worth a damn in the city, and we both know it!" 

Dean didn't say anything, but simply growled in a pissed-off manner. "Well, if you had kept your eyes on it, you would have known where to drive!" 

Sam raised an eyebrow at his older brother. "Dean? Do you really think that me slamming the car into a light pole, or running over someone, will help our standing with the authorities?"

"Hey!" Dean snapped. "For the last time, I didn't see that lady or her stupid Chihuahua/poodle thing!"

"And that's why you're city driving privileges have been revoked," Sam explained, trying to hide his smug smirk. 

Dean certainly did not think it was funny. "Stupid thing needed to get put out of it's misery--besides, if I can kick it over a backyard fence, it can't call itself a dog!" 

"Alright, look," Sam said, trying to get his brother back on track. “This banshee isn’t going to go and gank itself, Dean.” 

“We don’t have a lead, Sammy! There was no connection between the victims, not where they died, nothing!” Dean leaned against the hood, breathing heavily. 

The city around them was loud and stunk to high heaven. People yelling, sirens, traffic; there was so much background noise they could walk past the damn thing in a dark alley and not even realize it. 

Sam looked around them, and saw that across the street was a bar called “McGinty’s.” 

Sam smacked Dean’s arm and pointed towards the bar. “Are you trying to butter me up with alcohol?” Dean asked suspiciously. 

“No, Dean, focus. We’re in South Boston, hunting a banshee, who goes after Irish victims. Where do you think a monster like that could find people a little down on their luck and are a little more open to her wailing via Banshee Radio?”

Dean looked at the bar, then at Sam, and a grin blossomed over his face. “Well, we need to go check it out, then! For research and recon, obviously,” Dean said, heading straight for the pub.

“Way to valiantly lay your life down for the job,” Sam said, unable to stay mad at his older brother’s dorkiness. 

“Always willing to take one for the team, Sammy!” his older brother called. 

The bar was certainly different from the usual places Dean would drag Sam to. Normally they were slightly quieter places, with sad, depressed drunks and depressing country music that made the banshee’s wail look like a Disney number. This place was crazy the second they walked in. It was loud, packed with guys of all sorts who were rambunctiously laughing and yelling each other. There was even a few chords of poorly sung drinking songs that could be heard over the noise. 

Dean looked at Sam. “Sammy, we are no longer in Kansas…A legitimate Irish bar,” he said with a shake of his head. “I never figured my little Sammy would bring me here!” 

“We’re here for work, dumbass, remember that,” Sam said, although the infectious energy of the place made him smile

“Don’t be such a buzzkill, we might not survive the night,” Dean said as they made their way to the bar counter. The bar tender was an older guy with wispy gray hair in a comb over, and coke bottle glasses. 

“Wh-wh-what will you boys be hav-hav-hav-oh Fuck! Ass!” the older man stuttered. 

Dean and Sam looked at each other, clearly shocked and momentarily confused. “Excuse me?” Dean asked. 

“They’ll have two beers, Fuckass!” said an Irish accented voice next to Dean. He looks over to see a guy about his age and height, with blue eyes and tattoos on his left arm. A cigarette dangled from his lips, but he grinned at them. “He’s got a few screws missin’ from upstairs,” he said, tapping his temple. 

The old man gave them two beers, and gave the Irish guy one as well before moving on while muttering to himself. 

“Hey, thanks. I’m Dean, and this is my brother Sam.” 

The guy took Dean’s hand and shook it fiercely. “No shit? I’m Murphy, and this is my ass ugly brotha, Conner,” he pointed next to him. The Conner in question leaned forward to shake hands with the Winchesters as well. Unlike Murphy, he was a sandy-haired guy with green eyes, and the same tattoos as his brother but on the left arm. 

Sam looked at them, at couldn’t help but feel to make sure his wallet was still on him. Dean apparently decided these two Irish brothers were alright with him. 

“What’s with all the racket, or is this normal?” Dean asked, motioning to the party-like atmosphere in the bar. 

“Everyone’s Irish tonight! It’s St. Patrick’s Day!” Murphy said. 

Dean’s face lit up. “No kidding? We’ve been on the road so long, I forgot holidays were a thing,” he said. 

“Well, God seemed ta think ya needed to celebrate the only proper way, didn’ he?” Conner asked with a mischievous grin as they clinked their glasses together in a toast.

“Drinking beer with some boys straight from the Emerald Isle? Can’t get more authentic than that,” Dean agreed. Sam rolled his eyes, and sniffed the dark beer in the glass with a wrinkled nose. Normally he hated beer, and bars in general. Taking a few tentative sips, he found the brew wasn’t so bad. Beer in hand, Sam leaned into Dean’s ear and said loudly over the noise “I’m gonna look for leads!” 

“Got it!” Dean said, “I’ll keep an ear out here,” he said. 

Sam began walking around the bar, eavesdropping as much as possible to see if anyone was complaining about hearing ear-screeching wailing. He looked back to see Dean was having a grand old time with the Conner and Murphy—there was a lot of rambunctious laughing and back slapping. 

And of course, I’m the only one working on this case! Sam thought, his face darkening. 

He returned a few minutes later, and shook his head at Dean. “Nothing so far. The only wailing I’m hearing is these guys’ horribly off-key singing,” Sam said. 

“Well, we smack in the middle of the only decent hunting ground around. She’ll show,” Dean said, sounding way too relaxed about their current situation. 

Sam opened his mouth, and when Dean turned back to him, grinning from ear to ear, Sam closed his trap. It had been a while since his older brother had grinned like that. Like a kid on Christmas, he thought to himself. He decided to let Dean have his fun. Sam would keep his alcohol consumption low, and keep his wits about him for when the bitch showed up again. 

“Hey, Dean-o,” Conner said, suddenly appearing next to them. He was able to navigate the packed bodies in the bar like a ninja, it seemed. “Murphy seems to think you light weights couldn’ be able ta play a decent game a darts to save your asses from Hell. How do ya feel about proving ‘im wrong?” Conner asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

Dean slammed back the last of his beer and grinned. “I think your brother needs a lesson in getting his ass handed to him by a country boy!” 

When Sam and Dean won the first game without even trying, the rules changed. Every bulls-eye lead to a shot of whiskey being downed. Suspiciously, Murphy and Conner started to get the upper hand in that particular round. If they thought this was going to slow down the Winchesters, they were dead wrong. Well, Dean was holding his liquor fairly well, but Sam was sitting on a bar stool, trying not to keel over. 

Eventually, though Dean was stubborn to a fault the Irish brothers took pity on them and switched to a regular game of pool. Conner threw am arm around his shoulders. “Listen, Dean, you’re doing pretty good holding your booze, but you’ve got no chance keeping up with us. We were born three sheets into the wind!” he said with a laugh. 

As the night continued on, the bar was starting to empty as people went home. Sam was drinking water now, being completely put off beer, but Dean was still nursing another round. Conner and Murphy were a little sloshed, but nowhere near the levels a normal human would have been at that point.

“They should really make March 18th a holiday,” Sam said suddenly. 

Murphy looked up from lining up his shot. “And what would that be?”

“National Aspirin and Gatorade Day,” Sam stated, still feeling a little woozy. 

Murphy started laughing so hard Conner as to take the pool cue from him and make the shot himself. 

“So, it’s obvious you’re not from around here,” Conner started. 

“Kansas originally, but we’ve been traveling the past few years for work,” Dean answered, taking a long drag of his beer. He’d lost count on how many he’d actually had. 

“Oh, got some good ol’ boys here tonight, eh?” Conner teased, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “So, what sorta work are ya doing draggin’ you all over God’s green earth?”

“Believe me, man, you wouldn’t believe me if I told ya,” Dean said with a forced chuckle. 

“Calvin Klein models, then?” Conner asked, and Dean choked on his swallow of beer. Sam patted his back good naturedly. 

“Jealous, much?” Dean asked back. “I’m sure with those tattoos you could convince ‘em to have a ‘bad boys’ section.” 

“No thanks, beautiful,” Murphy said, sarcasm dripping from the words. 

“No but seriously, what do you do?” Conner asked again. 

Dean thought about it for a moment, then said simply “We get the bad guys.” 

Murphy and Conner shared a look between each other. Sam suddenly felt very exposed, and he almost wanted to hit Dean for giving themselves away to these two strangers. Just one phone call and they’d end up back in jail, maybe indefinitely this time. 

Instead, the MacManus brothers grabbed their glasses, raised them up, and toasted the Winchesters. “Amen to ya, Sam and Dean,” Murphy said. 

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Conner agreed, and beers were finished all around. These guys aren’t so bad, Sam thought to himself. 

Though plainly curious, Murphy and Conner did not press the issue further. They knew plenty about jobs that you didn’t blab about. Their best friend, Rocco, was a package runner for the Italian Mafia, but still a decent guy. Not mob though…bounty hunters, maybe? Conner wondered as he downed the beer. 

Suddenly, both brothers started turning their heads, like they were hearing something. “Ya hear that? Like a wailin’..?” Murphy asked. 

“Yeah. Can’t you guys hear it?” Conner asked, seeing Dean and Sam not react to the weird cry. 

Sam and dean looked at each other, eyes wide in recognition. The banshee! They both thought at the same time. They’d been having such a good time they had completely forgotten they were in the middle of a hunt. 

“Damn, look at the time,” Dean said hurriedly. “Much as I hate to, we’ve got some stuff to take care of.” 

“Yeah, work,” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes for extra effect. 

“Aw, come on man, have another round!” Murphy said. 

“Na, Murph. Let ‘em go. Didn’t ya hear ‘em? They’re working,” Conner said, and there was an understanding in his eyes as he shook both Dean and Sam’s hand with vigor. Though they hadn’t mentioned a thing about their life as hunters, Conner seemed to know they had to do something, and that wailing was a part of it. Instincts like that…shame these guys aren’t hunters, Dean lamented in his mind. 

As Dean and Sam left the bar, another guy with shoulder length brown hair in a black, knee-length pea coat entered, and they heard him yell as he enter “Hey, fuck ass! Get me a beer!”

~*~

Even with them still being highly plasters, the banshee was a fairly easy to gank, since they had gotten her before she had made her move against Murphy and Conner (the intended victims of the banshee were the only ones who could hear her wails—it was their death omen). The actual drunkiness of Dean and Sam might have even given them the edge over her—the banshee certainly was not expecting two hunters drunk off their respective asses to show up and tackle her to the ground and kill her. She died with her face contorted in not so much a dying face but one closer to “what the actual hell just happened?” face. 

~*~

It was already afternoon the next day, but Dean was still tired and sore from the previous nights’ adventures. Dean said in the Impala, sunglasses on and trying to survive the massive hangover he was suffering from. He was tired and sore, and his throat hurt like hell. “What the hell, Sam? A coffee run shouldn’t take this long.” 

A few minutes later the driver side door opened, and Sam flopped inside with coffee and donuts and a newspaper. He shoved a bottle of aspirin at his older brother. 

“St. Patrick’s Day at an Irish bar…dude were you trying to kill me?” Dean moaned.

“Dean, remember the guys at the bar?” Sam asked, ignoring Dean. He was sounding too excited considering how hung over he should have been as well. 

“Conner and Murphy, yeah?” Dean said, sipping his coffee. 

Suddenly, there was a newspaper shoved in his face. He shook his head to get his eyes to clear up enough to read the main headline. “THE SAINTS OF SOUTH BOSTON: Brothers Case Discovered to be Self-Defense.” 

“After we left the bar to gank that banshee, some Russian mobsters hit the bar and there was a huge bar fight. Conner and Murphy were followed home, and almost killed by the Russians,” Sam explained. 

“Wait, are they okay?” Dean asked in concern. “Are they in the hospital, in jail? Do we need to bail them out?”

“You just met them last night!” Sam huffed. 

“They were good guys,” Dean said defensively. 

“Well, no, they got off. Apparently when Murphy was taken to an alley and about to be ganked, Conner, who was cuffed to a toilet, mind you, ripped the toilet from the floor, and dropped it on the Russian’s head, then jumped onto the second guy--from 6 stories _up_.”

Dean’s eyes couldn’t get any wider without the actual eyeballs falling onto the floorboards of the car. “Holy shit, Sam,” he said. “That’s some brotherly love for ya!” 

“Too bad these guys weren’t hunters,” Sam said. 

Dean looked at the newspaper again. “No, Sam. I think they are. Just not the same evil that we hunt, that’s all. Looks like you’ve got your own bad guys to deal with, guys. Good luck,” he said, raising his coffee in a toast to the newspaper. 

“We are definitely coming to visit them again,” Dean stated. 

For once, Sam completely agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this story several years ago, but I just re-watched BDS and have been on a huge Supernatural kick recently, so I finally wrote this down. I may add more to this if people are interested, but it was just a little one-shot combing my two favorite pairs of brothers!  
> Also, I know technically this could never happen because BDS is in 1999, and Supernatural started in 2005, but we're ignoring that for hilarity. Thanks for reading!


End file.
